


The Colour of Crime

by Englishtutor



Series: The Other Doctor Watson [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, John and Mary are distracted when a "situation" arises, John and Mary solve a crime, Sherlock saves the world, casefic, scandalizing use of colour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7022566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John and Mary investigate the disappearance of a man's wife and his money while Sherlock is busy saving the world. A blatant reworking of ACD's "The Adventure of the Retired Colourman", with many apologies and much contrition. This is for the lovely Ennui Enigma, who kindly gave me this suggestion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Criminal Use of Colour

**Author's Note:**

> This is a retelling of ACD’s short story “The Adventure of the Retired Colourman”, as requested by my dear Ennui Enigma. Thank you, my friend, for your constant encouragement! 
> 
> As always, all the best lines are sheepishly stolen from Sir Arthur, with my apologies, and are in italics.

“I beg your pardon,” the stranger muttered as he pushed past them out of the street door to 221 Baker Street. John and Mary, who had been at the doorstep preparing to enter, paused to watch the elderly fellow limp down the pavement, slightly dragging one foot. He seemed like a man who was literally bowed down by care. His back was curved as though he carried a heavy burden.

The Watsons looked at each other. “Were we expecting a client?” Mary inquired.

“Not that I know of,” John replied with a shrug. Strange. He knew that Sherlock was immersed in a sensitive case of vital importance—surely he couldn’t be taking on a new client at a time like this. After another glance at the pitiable old gentleman who was now disappearing around a corner, the couple entered the house and mounted the steps to Sherlock’s flat. 

Sherlock himself was immersed in studying both a file folder in one hand and his laptop at his elbow on the desk. Without looking up, he intoned, “Did you see him?”

“You mean the old fellow who has just gone out? Yes, we met him at the door,” John informed him.

“What did you think of him?”

“A pathetic, futile, broken creature, I would say,” said John honestly.

The world’s only consulting detective appeared to be in a melancholy and philosophic mood that morning. He dragged his eyes from his work and looked at his partners in crime. “Exactly. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life pathetic and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach. We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow—misery.”

“You’re certainly in a mood today, Sweetheart,” Mary chided gently. John felt the corners of his mouth quiver in a qualified grin as his wife approached their brooding friend and laid a sympathetic hand on his head. “Did the poor old man bring this melancholia upon you, or did you reduce the poor old man to his pathetic and futile state with your enlightened assessment of his pathetic and futile life?”

Sherlock chose to ignore her and looked to John for his reaction. John, in his turn, spoke to Mary instead. “It’s this case he’s working on for Mycroft that’s given him the miseries,” he explained. “It should come to a head today, if all goes as it should; and Sherlock will be up for another knighthood for having helped to avert World War Three from erupting from Egypt this year.”

“It still might erupt,” Sherlock muttered morosely. “But I’ve done my part to stop it. The last move in the game will take place this evening.”

“Oh, yes, the Case of the Coptic Patriarchs!” Mary exclaimed. “John’s been telling me all about it. Congratulations, Sherlock, on a job well done! I’m so proud of you for saving the world again. It’s just a shame that no one outside of bureaucrats will ever know what a service you’ve done for us all.”

“It isn’t over yet,” the detective reminded her, a bit tersely. “I must concentrate on orchestrating the events of tonight. In the meanwhile, the Yard have sent this pathetic and futile fellow for a consult, as if I had nothing better to do. Just as medical men occasionally send their incurables to a quack, to get them out of their hair.”

“They couldn’t have known you were occupied. No one can know about the Coptic Patriarch case,” John soothed his friend’s ruffled feathers. “Anyway, give the case to me. I can look into it while you finish with the Copts. I may not be a detective, but I can certainly question witnesses and gather facts for you.”

“Give the case to US,” Mary corrected. “I’ve got the day off and I’d love to help!”

Sherlock frowned. “I suppose the ‘patient’ can be no worse than he is, whatever happens,” he conceded.

John knew better than to feel insulted. Sherlock was in the doldrums, for certain; working for Mycroft always drove him there. “Tell us about the matter,” he urged. “Then we’ll be off and you can get back to your Patriarchs.”

Handing John the folder he had been holding, Sherlock began. “Josiah Amberley. A retired colourization technician. You’ve probably seen his work—he’d been colourizing black and white films since the 1970’s.”

“Ooo, I hate those!” Mary burst out suddenly, and both men turned to her, John in amusement, Sherlock in annoyance. “Well, I do,” she insisted in a more subdued tone. “Black and white films were shot differently from colour films. They’re meant to be seen in black and white. Colourizing them ruins the effect. It’s . . . it’s an absolute crime! I hope this Amberley chap goes to prison for the rest of his natural life!”

“It isn’t his own cinematic crimes he’s asked us to investigate,” Sherlock returned dryly. “And apparently not everyone shares your intolerance for colour, as he made quite a hefty little pile from his work to retire on.”

“I don’t know that we should accept money from such a source,” Mary replied saucily, making a face. “Almost as bad as being hired by a crime lord.”

John bit back a chuckle. His wife seemed determined to jolly their friend from his ill mood. “Go on,” he encouraged Sherlock, his voice shaking with suppressed mirth. 

Sherlock sighed and gave Mary a significant look. “If I may,” he said a bit caustically, and went on. “Amberley retired three years ago at age 61 and bought a house in Lewisham. Two years ago, he married a woman twenty years his junior. That’s her picture,” he added, indicating a photograph in the file folder John was holding. 

“Good-looking woman,” John nodded approvingly. “If the photograph does not flatter,” he added as Mary playfully snatched the folder from his hands.

“Gold digger,” Mary pronounced as she examined the evidence of the picture.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Mary! You of all people cannot stand in contempt of a woman who marries an older man,” he scolded. 

Mary rolled her eyes. “Twelve years isn’t twenty,” she objected cheerfully. “And if I married John for his money, I was badly misinformed as to how lucrative the detective business might be.” John snorted, and the two giggled together until Sherlock’s baleful glare sobered them.

“As I was saying,” the great detective continued with exaggerated dignity, “A nicely padded financial portfolio, a new house, a new wife, a life of leisure—it seemed a straightforward road which lay before him. And yet within two years he is, as you have seen, as broken and miserable a creature as crawls beneath the sun.”

“I’ll lay odds the wife is having an affair,” Mary interrupted again.

John grinned. “Do stop holding back, Mary,” he urged. “If you have an opinion, please share it with us.”

“Sorry,” Mary tried to look contrite, failing at it badly. “Do go on. I’ll be good, I promise,” she added; but John wasn’t fooled for a minute. He winked at her cheerfully. 

“So the wife had an affair, did she? How tediously predictable,” he prompted Sherlock, who rolled his eyes again. 

“The old story,” he agreed grudgingly. “A treacherous friend and a fickle wife. It would appear that Amberley has one hobby in life, and it is chess. Not far from his home there lives a young doctor who is also a chess player; he is called Dr Ray Ernest.”

Mary snorted derisively. “Ernest is as earnest does,” she teased. “I suppose he was in great earnest about his chess playing.”

Sherlock chose to ignore her. “Ernest was frequently in the house, and an intimacy between him and Mrs. Amberley was a natural consequence.”

“I should say so,” John put his oar in this time. “Our unfortunate client has few outward graces, whatever his inner virtues may be.” 

Mary nodded wisely. “I suppose they’ve gone off together to destination unknown, and poor Mr. Amberley wants us to find his dear wife and persuade her to come back.”

“You’re half right,” Sherlock nodded, his spirits seemingly improved by his friends’ good humour. “The couple went off together last week, but the service our client requires of us is to recover the old man’s life savings, which she apparently carried off in her luggage.”

“Gold digger!” Mary cried triumphantly. “What did I tell you?”

Sherlock’s eye raised to the ceiling in an exaggerated appeal to the heavens for patience. “Yes, yes, you’re very clever,” he conceded to her delight, hiding a smile. “You have the address in the folder there. Off you go, then, and leave me to the Copts! I should be finished with them one way or another by midnight, and then you can report your findings to me.”

“Report. As to a commanding officer?” John inquired, his eyebrows raised in mock indignation.

“Regale, I meant. Regale me with stories of your adventures,” Sherlock amended sarcastically, to the amusement of his colleagues. And, in spite of his best efforts, the corners of his mouth turned up a bit.

“We’ll do our best,” Mary assured him, in earnest, kissing his cheek. “Good luck with your Coptic Patriarchs. I know you’ll be brilliant.”

“Naturally,” Sherlock said modestly.


	2. An Empty Vault

“Isn’t Catford District an odd place for someone with money to buy a retirement home?” Mary asked him as they trudged from the train station towards the Lewisham address in Amberley’s file. “I mean, maybe not Belgravia, but perhaps Highgate or West Hampstead. I mean, the Tube doesn’t even run here.”

“I don’t know. There’s supposed to be quite a lot of renovation going on in Lewisham. It should be a sound investment of property,” John suggested, looking around. “’The Haven’ is the name of Amberley’s house. Damn, the GPS doesn’t recognize the address. It should be down this way.”

But it wasn’t down that way, or down any of the other ways they tried. “Captain, let’s just ask someone,” Mary suggested at last. “If we’re in the correct neighbourhood, the locals should know where the house is.”

“I don’t need to ask directions—I’ll find it,” John muttered, examining the map he’d pulled up on his phone.

“Men. Why won’t you men ever admit to needing directions?” Mary chuckled as she watched him fume over the phone for a minute, and then looked around them. “Look, there’s a lounger smoking in the street. Let’s ask him.”

Without waiting for John to reply, she trotted towards the stranger on her own. John sighed and followed after her. In spite of his reassurances, he was not convinced that this was the safest of neighbourhoods to be lost in. The man his wife accosted was tall, dark, heavily moustached, and rather military-looking. By the time John reached them, Mary had already extracted the information she wanted from him and was coming back to her determinedly lost husband. John noticed that the man gave them a curiously questioning glance as she turned away from him.

But the stranger’s directions were sound and they were soon standing at the gateway of Josiah Amberley’s home. It was, John thought, like a penurious patrician who had sunk into the company of his inferiors—an island of ancient culture and comfort in the midst of the monotonous streets and weary suburban highways of Lewisham. 

“Good lord,” Mary murmured in horror as they surveyed the surrounding property. “This is the worst-kept place I’ve even laid eyes on.” John had to agree. The garden gave the impression of wild neglect in which the plants had been allowed to find the way of nature rather than of art. It was, however, a riot of colour, ill-planned and untamed though it might be. The house, too, was slatternly to the last degree, although it had once been painted bright green and yellow as the chipped and faded wood attested. A two-car garage had recently been added to the house, with a windowless room above it. The new yellow paint clashed bizarrely with the rest of the building.

“How any woman could have tolerated such a state of things, I can’t imagine,” Mary continued. “No wonder she ran away from home. I would run off with the doctor, too, in her shoes.”

John grinned, “Dr Ernest? Or Dr Who?” he teased.

She smiled at him fondly. “Dr You, Captain,” she smiled. “Of course, I’d run off with you at any time—you needn’t let our home run to seed like this to encourage me!”

They had been looked-for, it seemed, for they no sooner opened the gate and started up the drive than they saw Mr Amberley emerge from his front door and approach them. John recalled that he had thought him stooped and handicapped with a limp when they had encountered him that morning. Now he realized that the man was not the weakling he had first imagined, for his shoulders and chest had the framework of a giant, though his figure tapered away into a pair of spindly legs. He was struck by the snaky locks of grizzled hair which curled from under his old straw hat, and by his face with its fierce, eager expression and deeply lined features. 

“You must be Dr Watson,” he called as he came near. “Mr Holmes told me this morning to expect you.”

“Mr Amberley,” John held out a friendly hand and found his host’s grip to be strong, if dry and rough. “This is my wife Mary. She helps us out with our cases from time to time.”

“Mrs Watson,” Mr Amberley said politely, taking her hand and holding it about half a minute longer than necessary. “I am glad you are here. I suppose your colleague has filled you in on the details of my case.” 

He escorted them into a dingy sitting room and bid them sit down. “I am grateful you’ve come, although I admit I had a vain hope that Mr Holmes might come see me personally. I should not have expected that so humble an individual as myself, especially after my heavy financial loss, could obtain the attention of so famous man as Sherlock Holmes.”

“I assure you, Mr Amberley, that the financial question does not come into it. We help anyone who needs us and accept what payment is possible,” John returned graciously. “Mr Holmes is merely immersed in a previous commitment and will turn his attention to your case as soon as may be.”

“No, of course, it is art for art’s sake with him, isn’t it?” Mr Amberley mused. “But even on the artistic side of crime he might have found something here to study. And human nature, Dr Watson—the black ingratitude of it all!”

 

Their client grew warm with emotion and rose to agitatedly pace the room. “When did I ever refuse one of her requests? Was ever a woman so pampered as my wife? And that young man Ernest—he might have been my own son. He had the run of my house. And yet see how they have treated me! Oh, Dr Watson, it is a dreadful, dreadful world!” He pulled out his wallet and produced a photograph of his wayward beloved. Ripping the picture into pieces with a dramatic flourish, he shrieked, “I never wish to see her damned face again!”

John smirked to see his wife roll her eyes sardonically. “There now, Mr Amberley. Calm yourself. We’re here to help,” she soothed, her voice deceptively caring. John was impressed with her acting abilities.

He took out his little notebook and tried to turn the tide of woeful complaint to useful information. After some questioning, they found that the Amberleys had lived alone save for a woman who come in to clean each day, leaving promptly at 6:00 every evening. On the evening in question, Amberley had wished to give his wife a treat. He had taken two upper circle seats at the Haymarket Theatre, but at the last moment she had complained of a headache and refused to go.

“You see, you see, Dr Watson,” Amberley exclaimed, holding out the unused ticket. “I do everything to please the woman, but nothing is good enough for her.” John took the ticket from Amberley’s hand and tucked it into his notebook. He had learned that, for Sherlock, nothing was too trivial and felt the ticket might be of use.

Meantime, Amberley turned his attention to Mary, perhaps hoping for a bit more feminine sympathy. “I even just last week bought a dog kennel because she suddenly fancied having a pet,” his litany continued. “Fortunately, I had not yet purchased the dog—I might be tempted to turn it out into the streets!” 

John noted Mary’s eyes sweeping around the room and knew she was unimpressed with the man’s defensive assurance that his wife had been given everything she desired in light of the dark and shabby sitting room. Then he noted the old letch’s gaze travel down his wife’s blouse and felt enough was enough.

“So I understand that you kept all your money and securities here in the house,” the doctor said, pulling the client’s attention back to himself. “Do you distrust the banks, then? That hardly seems wise, does it?”

“Let me show you,” Amberley replied. He led them up some stairs and into the windowless room above the new garage. “This is my strong room. It’s much like a bank vault. Impenetrable by any intruders. Who knew I should have to worry about being robbed by my own household?”

The room was indeed burglar-proof, with an iron door and no other entrance or window. Only a few small, louvered openings about the size of mail-slots opened on one wall near the floor provided ventilation. The key to the heavy bolt that locked the door had been kept on the client’s person at all times—but it seemed the lady of the house had sneaked it from his pocket that evening before he left alone for the theatre. This room, although fairly new, was in the process of being freshly painted. It seemed apparent where Mr Amberley’s true affections lay. A bucket of fresh green paint stood in the middle of the floor and paintbrushes lay on newspapers beside it. The paint fumes in the close little room were overpowering.

“I came back from the theatre about midnight that night to find the place plundered, the door open, and the fugitives gone. They left no letter or message, nor have they sent any word since. They took several hundred thousand pounds in cash, and all my securities,” the client continued. “I called the police at once, of course. I gave them a list of the securities—they should be unsaleable. At least I have that small comfort.”

Mary frowned at the little room, her lips pressed tightly together. “Had you started painting in here before the theft?” she asked.

“Yes, that very day in fact,” the grieving man told her. “I’ve been working on it bit by bit since. One must do something to ease an aching heart.”

“Quite,” Mary said pertly. Clearly, she had no room in her sympathies for a man who colourized black and white films and made his wife live in a run-down old house.

They left at last and began the long trek back to the train station. “You’ll make a poor detective, Mary, if you carry on making judgements before gathering the facts,” John chuckled. “You’d already decided to despise the old man before you ever met him.”

Mary laughed. “Yes, I suppose I had,” she admitted. “You’re right, I’m biased in my opinions. That’s why you’re the detective and I’m just the assistant. But you have to agree that there’s not much to like in our client.”

John was about to concede her point when he noticed a movement in an alley as they passed. A surreptitious glimpse confirmed that this was the stranger from whom they had asked directions earlier that afternoon. He pulled Mary quickly off onto a side street. 

“We’re being followed,” he hissed in her ear. “Run!”


	3. Exciting Encounters of Varying Kinds

Down the side street they ran, dodged around corners, climbed a fire escape, ran over rooftops, and finally sneaked into a block of flats through a maintenance entrance, down the stairs, and out into an alley, panting freely.

John pulled Mary into a sheltering doorway and, shielding her from view with his body, peeked around the doorframe and listened for the sound of following footsteps. All was quiet. He let out a breath of relief and turned to look at his wife. His lips quirked into an affectionate smile. Her eyes were shining and her face was flushed with excitement—being pursued by mysterious strangers of unknown intent was apparently one of her favorite sources of entertainment.

“We’ve lost him, haven’t we?” she asked cheerfully. “So why are we still hiding?”

He moved closer and placed his hands on the door on either side of her. “We’re not hiding. I just wanted to put us into a compromising position,” he informed her. 

“Oh, well, in that case, I’ll do my bit to help,” she responded, winding her arms around his neck and kissing him passionately.

“Let’s get home, shall we?” he then suggested. “I’d actually rather not be compromised in a filthy alleyway.” 

“I agree, wholeheartedly!” Mary chuckled. She looked around. “But we’re lost again, aren’t we?”

John affected an offended look. “No, we’re not lost. I know exactly where we are.” He trotted to the end of the alley and looked up and down the street. “See, there’s the train station just down there.”

Mary snorted. “Luck!” she pronounced. “Sheer, unadulterated luck.”

“Not luck—my uncanny sense of direction,” John protested, and Mary went into a fit of laughter. 

“Darling, you have a number of exceptional senses, but direction isn’t one of them,” she told him. “I don’t know how you got on in the army, wandering about the desert muttering at a map.”

John smirked. “I had subordinates to lead me about,” he admitted. “Doctors don’t need to know where they’re going—they just have to be ready to go where they’re taken.”

Mary grabbed his hand and started leading him down the street to the station. “I think I’ll take you home then, Doctor, and see how good you are with your other senses,” she said.

 

000

Lounging in bed, half-asleep and completely relaxed, he meditatively stroked his wife’s soft hair, enjoying the weight of her head on his chest and the tickle of her fingertips gently tracing the scars on his shoulder. Four years married, and he was still amazed at his luck in finding a woman who could share in his excitement of a chase and who took danger in her stride. 

A knock at the door of their flat put him immediately on alert. “Who the hell could that be?” he muttered under his breath, getting to his feet with a sigh and rummaging for pants and trousers.

“I’ve knocked!” came Sherlock’s voice through the door, just as if he’d heard John’s question. “I’m coming in now!”

“It’s an imposter!” Mary cried in mock dismay. “Our Sherlock doesn’t know how to knock on doors.”

John chuckled. “I’ll bet he learnt his lesson last time. After four years, it’s about time he acquired some manners,” he said as he quickly dressed.

“He did get an eyeful, last time,” Mary grinned. “I believe he thought we remain in a sort of state of suspended animation whenever we’re not with him and spring back to life when he needs us. I guess he knows better now.”

John stepped into the sitting room, still shrugging into his shirt, and shut the bedroom door behind him. True to his word, Sherlock had entered the flat as announced. Taking in the sight of clothing scattered in a trail from the door to the couch to the bedroom, the detective heaved a long-suffering sigh.

“I see this case is not the foremost thing on your minds,” he stated dryly, sniffing in disdain. 

Picking up his discarded trousers, John smirked. “We got a bit distracted, I admit. A situation arose and needed our immediate attention. But we’re back on the job, now! And how about your case? How is World War Three shaping up?”

“Thanks to our Coptic friends, the world is safe for now,” Sherlock told him. “Mycroft’s ecstatic, I suppose; I didn’t stay to see. That’s all old news. Old news is boring! Time to move on to something new.”

John picked up the rest of the discarded clothes from the floor and tossed them into a laundry basket. He shook his head. “It’s only just gone midnight. This case can’t have been wrapped up for an hour yet, and already you’re bored. Your ability to maintain interest in anything is decidedly that of a three-year-old.” He proceeded to the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove.

Sherlock put on his most long-suffering look. “This from a man who couldn’t even finish the case he was working on without encountering a . . . situation. A situation which, according to my observations, arose more than once.”

John simply grinned and pulled three cups from the cupboard. 

Mary herself then put in an appearance wearing a dressing gown, wet hair wrapped up in a towel. “Tea? Ooo, just what the doctor ordered!” she exclaimed gratefully. After John carried the tea tray into the sitting room, she quickly served it out.

Meanwhile, John began “reporting” to Sherlock on their activities of the afternoon, beginning with the moustached man from whom they had acquired directions, then on to a description of “The Haven”. “I think it would interest you, Sherlock, this house. A very old and originally a very stately home now taken over by a man who does not know how to care for it. It’s surrounded by a high sun-baked wall mottled with lichens and topped with moss, the sort of wall . . . .”

“Cut out the poetry, John,” the detective said severely. “I note that it was a high brick wall.”

“That was beautifully expressed, Captain,” Mary assured him brightly. “Put it in your blog just that way. Your readers will adore it.”

Sherlock snorted derisively but did not interrupt again. He lay with his gaunt figure stretched in a deep chair while his eyelids drooped over his eyes so lazily that he might almost have been asleep were it not that at any halt or questionable passage of John’s narrative they half lifted, and two grey eyes, as bright and keen as rapiers, transfixed him with their searching gaze. He didn’t speak, however, until John reached the description of the old man’s diatribe against his ungrateful wife and his producing the unused theatre ticket.

“This is remarkable—most remarkable,” he announced, sitting up in sudden interest. “Did you personally examine this ticket? You did not, perchance, take the number?”

“Better than that, I have the ticket with me,” John smiled, triumphantly producing it from his notebook. It was rare that he found himself one step ahead of his brilliant friend.

“Row B, seat thirty-one. His seat, then, was either thirty or thirty-two,” the detective mused. “Excellent. And then he took you upstairs to his strong room.”

As John described the client’s vault-room, Sherlock once again closed his eyes in thought. “You say he was painting?” he asked as the doctor finished. “Does it not strike you as a strange occupation in the circumstances?”

Mary rolled her eyes expressively. “‘One must do something to ease an aching heart.’ That was his own explanation. Clearly he was more heartbroken to have lost his money than to have lost his wife,” she said sarcastically.

“You don’t believe that Mr Amberley longs for his wife’s return?” Sherlock asked, smirking knowingly.

“Right,” Mary snorted. “I know the look of a man who is in love with his wife, and our client did not have that look. Our Mr Amberley is affronted that his wife would leave him because it hurts his manly pride. But miss her, he does not,” she proclaimed.

“I agree,” Sherlock smiled. “One need only to look to our own doctor here to find what a man besotted with his wife should look like; our client does indeed lack that expression. Anything more?”

John nodded. “Yes, one thing which happened on our way back to the train station. The man Mary had stopped in the street to ask for directions was following us from Amberley’s house. I had no intention of letting him find out where we live, so we took an alternate route to the station via rooftops and alleyways.”

“No doubt, no doubt! A tall, dark, heavily moustached man, you say, with grey-tinted sun-glasses,” Sherlock mused thoughtfully.

“Sherlock, you are a wizard,” Mary complimented him warmly. “John never mentioned it, but he did have grey-tinted glasses.”

“And a Masonic ring on his left hand?” Sherlock continued.

“Sherlock! How did you know? I never even mentioned that to John,” Mary marveled.

“Never mind,” Sherlock waved her curiosity away with a casual gesture. “But if you encounter this man again, don’t bother running from him. He’s harmless. But let us get down to what is practical. It is true that though in your mission you both have missed everything of importance, yet even those things that have obtruded themselves upon your notice give rise to serious thought.” He steepled his hands before his lips and considered the evidence.

“What did we miss?” John wondered, a bit hurt.

“Oh, don’t take it that way. No one else would have done better. But clearly you have missed some vital points. What is the opinion of the neighbours about this man Amberley and his wife? That surely is of importance. What of Dr Ernest? Was he the gay Lothario one would expect? With your natural advantages, John, every lady is your helper and accomplice. But have you used your gifts to gather useful information? No, you waste all your efforts on the one woman you’ve already wooed and won.”

John’s face went red with indignation at this observation, and Mary burst into helpless laughter. “Oh, Captain, he’s right, you know! I can picture you whispering soft nothings to a young lady at the local pub and receiving useful somethings in exchange,” she crowed cheerfully.

“Are you seriously suggesting that I chat up the local woman for information?” he asked her, slightly incredulous.

“Obviously!” Sherlock insisted. “The girls at the post office, the bank tellers, the check-out girl at the local market. And you, Mary-- you’re an acceptable-looking, approachable young female. You could extract all sorts of useful knowledge from the men in the area.”

“Acceptable-looking? Oh, you really know how to sweet-talk a girl, don’t you, Sweetheart?” Mary grinned at him. “You are wise to leave the information-collecting up to us. We’ll get on it in the morning, won’t we, Captain?”

John was still stunned by the entire suggestion. “Natural advantages? What does that even mean?” he demanded.

“I’ll explain that to you in private, darling,” Mary chuckled warmly. “I shall enumerate them one by one. And then you can whisper endearments to me about how acceptable-looking I am.”

“Then go and do it in the bedroom,” Sherlock commanded impatiently. “I’m going to sleep on the couch. Good-night.”

Mary’s dimples deepened as she raised her eyebrows at John. “We’re dismissed, Captain. Report complete,” she grinned.


	4. An Investigation of a Garish Garage

If they slept in next morning, it was not to be wondered at considering they had not properly gone to bed until nearly dawn. As they yawned over breakfast, John frowned into his coffee and fretted Mary nearly out of her mind with his sighing.

“I don’t know if you’ve realized this,” he told them facetiously, “but I’m rubbish at lying.” Mary smiled fondly at him. John was talented at questioning witnesses and soothing victims of crimes, easily winning the confidence of strangers with his sympathetic warmth. But guile was not his area.

Sherlock snorted derisively and opened his mouth to make a snarky reply, but was arrested by the sight of Mary’s right index finger pointing at him. She knew he had never managed to muster the courage to disobey that gesture. 

“Of course you are, Captain,” Mary assured her husband cheerfully. “Your honest nature is one of your most endearing qualities. It’s the chief reason I married you—you have an integrity most men lack. And it’s the quality Sherlock values most in your character whether he is willing to admit it or not.”

“How then do you two expect me to seriously chat up the local women for information?” John demanded bleakly. 

“This was never a problem before you met Mary,” Sherlock complained unhelpfully. “Then you were honestly interested in every female you met.” John glared at him and Mary shot the detective a deadly glance that shut him up again.

“You don’t have to feign interest, Captain. Just smile that wonderful smile of yours and be your usual friendly self, and believe me, the ladies will all queue up to have a chance to speak to you,” she encouraged him. “That sort of aloof, disinterested air will make them all the more eager to earn your attention with helpful information. “

“I agree,” Sherlock chimed in, “But Mary, on the other hand, is a consummate actress and will have every man in the neighbourhood as a personal slave in a matter of hours,” Sherlock observed, looking strangely pleased at the thought.

“I’ll try not to let any of them follow me home,” Mary said demurely. 

John put on his most long-suffering look. “All right, let’s get this over with, then,” he told her. “But do be careful about which kinds of slaves you bring back with you—if they can’t do laundry or wash windows, we’re not interested.” He began to pull on his shoulder holster and go through his usual weapons checks before putting on his jacket.

Mary pocketed her switchblade and a can of mace. “And what will you be doing while we’re out gathering facts for you?” she asked the detective.

“Contemplating colour,” he replied thoughtfully. “I believe you are right, Mary. His application of colour in inappropriate places is telling. Very telling.”

000

It did not take much effort on their part for John and Mary to gather up the information they were seeking. They split up and canvassed the neighborhood; and, in reality, it was both inconvenient and unnecessary to divide their witnesses by gender. Mary went door to door chatting with those who lived nearest the Amberleys while John went to likely places of business. Everywhere they went, they found that their eccentric client was a popular figure of gossip and few were reticent in giving an opinion about him. 

Meeting for a late lunch at the Blue Anchor pub, the couple compared notes and found the locals to have all drawn the same conclusions as themselves. Notably, every woman interviewed described Amberley as “creepy” and every man denounced him as a “wanker”. 

“He don’t look a girl in the eye when he talks to you,” one postal clerk complained. “He focusses on your third button down.”

Both sexes agreed that he was a miser, a “cheap bastard”, and a poor tipper. No one was ignorant of the vast amounts of cash he kept in his strong-room nor of the harsh and abusive way he treated his wife. The affair between Mrs Amberley and Dr Ernest was common knowledge. It also seemed to be generally known that most of the miser’s money was invested safely in stocks—the loss of the admittedly large amount of cash taken from the vault, while inconvenient, would not be felt by the old man in any permanent way.

“I’d say, whatever amount of money she took off him, it were too little to pay her back for these two years she spent with him,” one shop clerk declared heatedly, and this sentiment seemed to unanimous throughout the area

"All just as expected,” Sherlock agreed when they called to bring him up to date on their investigation. “And yet!—and yet!”

“Where lies the difficulty?” John wanted to know.

“In my imagination, perhaps,” Sherlock admitted. “But we shall see. Go to Amberley’s house and ask to look at that garish garage. I’d like to know what kind of automobile warrants such accommodations when his wife was required to live in a run-down, deteriorating pile.”

“That’s terribly caring of you, Sweetheart,” Mary told him cheerfully. “I don’t believe you for a moment!”

But when they arrived at Mr Amberley’s home, the old fellow had a very worried and puzzled look upon his austere face.

“I’ve had a text, Dr Watson. I can make nothing of it.” He handed his mobile to John, who read the message aloud to Mary.

“Come at once without fail. Can give you information as to your recent loss. Rev. J. C. Elman, The Vicarage” An address in Essex followed. John immediately called Sherlock to relay this newest development in the case.

“Little Purlington is in Essex, I believe, is not far from Frinton. Well, of course you will start at once. This is evidently from a responsible person, the vicar of the place. Look up the trains, John. You and Mary had best go with him. He may need help or advice. Clearly we have come to a crisis in this affair.”

Mr Amberley was by no means eager to start. “It’s perfectly absurd!” he said. “What can this man possibly know of what has occurred? It is a waste of time and money.”

“He wouldn’t have texted you if he did not know something,” Mary reasoned. “After all, how would he even know your number if he were not involved in some way.”

“It would make the worst possible impression, on both the police and upon myself, Mr Amberley,” Sherlock intoned sternly, “if when so obvious a clue arose you should refuse to follow it up. We should feel that you were not really in earnest in this investigation.” 

Their client seemed horrified at this suggestion. “Why, of course, I shall go if you look at it in that way. On the face of it, it seems absurd to suppose that this person knows anything, but if you think . . . .”

“I do think,” said Sherlock with emphasis.

“Well, there’s no need to take the train,” Mr Amberley sighed, resigned to his fate. “We’ll take my car.” He led the couple to his garishly painted garage, where two cars were housed. “Actually, we’ll take my wife’s car. It is more fuel efficient.”

Mrs Amberley’s automobile, while not new, was a BMW, only a few years old and in fairly good shape. “She had this when we married,” their client muttered morosely. “I would never have wasted my money on such extravagance. She’s the one who insisted this garage be built to accommodate it,” he told them, apparently forgetting that he had just praised the car’s economy. He sighed greatly. “Putting my strong-room above it made it worth the cost to me, though. I’d never have justified the expense otherwise.”

Mr Amberley’s own vehicle, also parked neatly in the garage, was a Volvo of a make from the early 1990’s, its paint faded and scratched, one fender dented and rusty. John was just as happy not to trust their lives to the poor old car. 

“Perhaps you’ll join me in the front seat, Mrs Watson,” their host suggested, apparently addressing the third button of her blouse. He unlocked the BMW and prepared to climb into the driver’s seat.

John briefly considered punching the man in the nose to teach him some manners, but then saw Mary’s hand go into her pocket and grasp her canister of mace. A scenario passed through his mind involving the lecherous Mr Amberley pawing at his wife’s thigh as they drove through busy streets and being blinded by Mary’s mace for his trouble, running them off the road and killing them all. 

“I think I’ll sit in the back, Mr Amberley,” she smiled; but her smile was cool and did not reach her eyes. “You and John should have a lot to talk about—he loves old movies.” She ensconced herself firmly in the rear seat and pulled out her mobile.

John hardly knew whether to be relieved that Mary had removed herself from harassment’s reach or to be annoyed that she so willingly threw him to the lions. Then he remembered how vindictive his wife felt towards their client and thought it best she keep her distance from him.

“Nearly two hours there and two hours back,” she was musing, looking at the map pulled up on her phone. “Let’s stop and have tea somewhere in Chelmsford, shall we?”

Meantime, Sherlock had sent John a text. “Whatever you do, see that he really does go. Should he bolt, call me immediately.”

‘What are you up to, Sherlock?’ John wondered. For himself, he did not believe in this Rev. J. C. Elman of Little Purlington. He settled himself in his seat for a very long, uncomfortable drive.


	5. An Afternoon in Hell

The journey to Little Purlington was interminable. Amberley, claiming the AC was not cost-efficient, refused to turn it on. He also insisted that opening the windows would lower the car’s fuel efficiency. And so they all sweltered in the hot car for the entire hour and 46 minutes it took to drive to the vicar’s house. Yes, John was counting. Their client also claimed that stopping for tea was a waste of precious time and money, and so went their hope of a short respite. Most of the trip, John spent listening to the old man natter on about colourizing old films and complain about the high cost of just about everything.

They had one break when the automobile was running on fumes and Amberley was forced to stop for petrol. Mary and John took this opportunity to use the loo, and then John walked about and stretched his legs a bit. As he approached the car again, he heard Amberley’s voice and unabashedly stopped just out of his client’s line of vision to listen.

“You’re a fascinating young woman, Mrs Watson. I hope your husband appreciates you properly,” Amberley began.

“My husband and I spent vast amounts of time appreciating each other,” Mary assured him cheekily. 

And yet, the old man persevered. “I wanted to make certain you realized that, although my estranged wife has taken a great deal of my money, I have a very comfortable living from my stocks. A very comfortable living. I would be quite capable of making a worthy woman like yourself quite happy.”

John shook his head. He would have admired Amberley’s gall if he wasn’t so busy being outraged by it. All of his protective instincts arose and demanded that he flatten his client and demand Amberley apologize to his wife for insulting her with unwanted attention, perhaps while stepping on the man’s head. However, he knew full well that Mary was capable of defending herself, and that watching her do so was often amusing. And so he held his peace and prepared to admire his wife.

She did not disappoint. “I’m sure it must be extremely gratifying for you to believe so,” Mary replied in an agreeable tone. John had to stifle a chuckle as he surreptitiously watched the old fellow try to work out whether he had been offered insult or compliment.

He apparently decided to feel encouraged. “It occurred to me that the detective business might not bring the most lucrative living—especially as so many of your husband’s cases are pro bono or at least pro rata. And that perhaps you are not being financially supported as a woman such as yourself might deserve.”

“You may not be aware, Mr Amberley,” Mary informed him tartly, “that I am a doctor in a fairly successful practice. I have no need of anyone to support me financially.”

“Ah,” the persistently clueless old fellow grasped her arm. “But perhaps you grow weary, then, of financing your husband’s and his colleague’s detective ventures.”

Mary stared at the offending hand on her arm for a long second, then brushed it aside with great dignity. “Mr Amberley, you need have no concern for my own or my husband’s financial condition. While John and Sherlock do take pro bono and pro rata work, they have also worked for governments and royalty, billionaires and banking firms. They are quite successful without my help. Furthermore,” she continued in a cool tone, “oddly enough, I married John for his character, not for his financial portfolio. In fact, I married him because he respects me enough to look me in the eye while he’s speaking to me, and I would thank you to remember to do the same.”

And she walked away, stepped into the car, and shut the door. John, smiling proudly, nearly applauded. 

For the rest of the trip, their companion, sullen and silent, hardly talked at all save to make an occasional sardonic remark as to the futility of their proceedings. 

At the vicarage, a big, solemn, rather pompous clergyman received them into his study. It did not take long to establish that the austere Reverend Elman knew nothing about Mr Josiah Amberley, Mr Amberley’s wife, Dr Ray Ernest, or the missing money.

“Here is a copy of the message,” Amberley explained, showing the man the text on his phone. It was quickly established that the number from which the text had been sent was not Rev. Elman’s phone number. The vicar showed none of the patience or forgiveness his reverend collar would have led them to expect.

“This is a scandalous forgery, the origin of which shall certainly be investigated by the police,” he snapped angrily. “Meanwhile, I can see no possible object in prolonging this interview.” And with that, they were summarily dismissed.

They found themselves on the roadside in what seemed to be the most primitive village in England. John texted Sherlock with this development in the case and, unsurprisingly, received no immediate reply. 

“I’m for dinner,” Mary declared firmly. “It’s been a long day, and I’m starving. And I simply cannot survive another minute without my tea.”

There were few establishments in the village to choose from, and all of them looked extravagantly expensive according to their client. But John and Mary stood their ground and insisted on having a meal before starting their long journey back to London. As they entered the likeliest-looking pub, it was hard to say which of them was in the worst humour.

While they were making their way to their table, John finally received a text from Sherlock. It read simply, “Stall.” Mary, he saw, was also looking at her phone and he surmised that she had received the same message. 

“Tyre puncture,” John murmured in her ear.

“Let me,” she whispered back. “I won’t be left alone with him. And I feel the pressing need to stab something. Perhaps multiple times.”

John chuckled. “Therapeutic, indeed,” he agreed. “On you go. I’ll tell him you’ve gone to the ladies’. And I’ll order for you.”

An hour later, they emerged from the pub to find the right front tyre of Mr Amberley’s BMW had gone unfortunately flat. It appeared to have run over a great many sharp objects. John, generously offering to take care of it, broke the world’s record for slowest tyre change. By the time they were off for London, the two doctors were concerned for their client’s blood pressure.

A call to Sherlock near the end of their nearly two-hour-long return journey confirmed that he was waiting for them at Mr Amberley’s Lewisham residence. As they entered the sitting room, they were surprised to find that the detective was not alone.

A stern-looking, impassive man sat beside him with grey-tinted glasses and a large Masonic ring on his left hand. The very man, in fact, who had been following the Watsons on the day before.

“This is my friend Mr Barker,” said Sherlock. “He has been interesting himself also in your business, Mr Amberley, though we have been working independently. But we both have the same question to ask you.”

Mr Amberley sat down heavily. He sensed impending danger, John saw in his straining eyes and his twitching features.

“What is the question, Mr Holmes?” he asked warily.

“Only this: What did you do with the bodies?”


	6. The Ending Gives an Appetite

It was in the wee hours of the morning when the three friends finally arrived at Angelo’s for a celebratory dinner. Sherlock, who hadn’t eaten in days, ordered enough food for an army, and they sat and waited for their meals, happy in each other’s company and with a job well done.

“I’m glad to get this day behind me,” Mary sighed, sounding exhausted. “I do love solving crimes with you boys, but this has certainly been a trying case and one of the most miserable days I’ve had in ages.”

Sherlock raised his brows inquiringly. For him, all had been joyous discovery. But he hadn’t heard the Watson’s tale yet.

“Amberley apparently grew to so enjoy having a young wife about that, having lost his own, he decided to try to purchase mine--right out from under my nose,” John informed him with a grim look.

Sherlock nodded, now enlightened as to the apparent satisfaction John had received from punching their client in the face earlier that night. When Sherlock had asked his damning question, (What did you do with the bodies?) Amberley sprang to his feet with a hoarse scream. In a flash, they had got a glimpse of the real Josiah Amberley, a misshapen demon with a soul as distorted as his body. When the murderer dove at John and tried to wrestle the doctor’s weapon from its holster, he had been treated to a taste of Watson wrath and had dropped to the floor with a howl, blood spurting from a broken nose. Still, it had taken John, Sherlock, and Barker together to subdue their thrashing prisoner and hold him for Lestrade’s people to retrieve.

Picturing their client waving his money in Mary’s face to lure her from her husband made Sherlock smile. He could imagine that John had been longing for an excuse to flatten the man all day. “So, was he successful in his attempt to purchase Mary?” he asked with a sly grin.

Mary snorted with laughter. “Listen to him, Captain! Isn’t that cute? He made a little joke!”

“A very little joke,” John agreed. “So, Sherlock, you gave your report to Lestrade, but Mary and I were out of the loop while we were baby-minding the client. Tell us how you figured out our puzzle. And who this Barker fellow is.”

“Barker is an old rival, a private detective from Surrey. When you described him yesterday, it wasn’t hard for me to realize who it was that had followed you. He has interfered several times in police investigations. I was slipping into Amberley’s pantry window earlier today when I felt a hand inside my collar and a voice said, ‘Now, you rascal, what are you doing in there?’ When I could twist my head round I looked into the tinted spectacles of my friend and rival, Mr Barker. It was a curious foregathering and set us both smiling. It seems that he had been engaged by Dr Ray Ernest’s family to make some investigations and had come to the same conclusions as to foul play. He had watched the house for several days and had spotted you two as obviously suspicious characters. He was unable to catch you, but since he had caught me, we continued investigations together.”

Mary chuckled. “I’d loved to have seen your face when he grabbed you! Clever man, to catch you off guard like that!”

The world’s only consulting detective scowled. “It’s difficult to be wary when one is half in and half out of a window,” he said defensively. “At any rate, he may have caught me, but he was at a loss as to how the murder was done. I soon explained it to him to his satisfaction!”

Smiling knowingly, John soothed him, “I’m sure you did. And now you can explain it to us!”

“I knew the whole ‘running away’ story was obvious nonsense. Why would the fleeing couple burden themselves with the old man’s securities, knowing they would be useless to them? And then there was the whole problem of colorization: why should Amberley busy himself with painting a room only two years old when the rest of his house was falling down around his ears with neglect? And would such a miserable miser truly spend the money to buy his wife a dog kennel for a new pet, when keeping an animal is such an unnecessary expense?

“I had already checked with Haymarket Theatre, and thanks to John’s inspirational nicking of the wife’s unused ticket, was able to ascertain that the seats on either side of Mr Amberley’s intended seat had been unoccupied—Amberley had not been to the theatre, and his alibi fell to the ground. He made a bad slip when he allowed you, my astute friend, to keep the number of the seat taken for his wife. The question arose how I might examine the house. And so, I sent you all on a wild goose chase to Essex.”

“You owe an apology to Rev. Elman,” Mary told him gently. “He was not a happy man to be disturbed in his own home by such a disagreeable person as our client.”

Sherlock smiled at her disarmingly. “I was certain your charm would easily soothe any ruffled feathers, Mary,” he maintained suavely. 

Mary lifted her eyes to the heavens for patience.

“It was your observation of the strong room that set my foot upon the trail,” Sherlock continued. “Why should this man at such a time be filling his house with strong odours? Obviously to cover some other smell which he wished to conceal—some guilty smell which would suggest suspicions. Then came the idea of a room with an iron door—a sealed room. Put those two facts together, and whither do they lead?”

“The room is over the garage,” John nodded. “And the air vents near the floor. And Amberley’s car . . . .”

“Is an old model. Removing the catalytic converter would not have impeded the engine in any way, and so the exhaust would have flowed from it untreated. Barker and I searched the garage first, and quickly found the tubing he had attached to the car’s exhaust pipe and ran up to one of the vents to the room above. Then we searched the strong room itself. All of the air vents but one had been blocked on the inside. But we also found another grim little bit of evidence, and I’m sure Amberley himself never observed it. Suppose you were shut up in that little room, had not two minutes to live, but wanted to get even with the fiend who was probably mocking at you from the other side of the door. What would you do?”

“They wrote a message!” Mary cried. “Of course, you would like to tell people how you died.”

“No use writing on paper,” John mused thoughtfully. “That would be seen by Amberley immediately. But if you wrote on the wall someone might notice it.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock confirmed. “Just above the skirting was scribbled in purple indelible pencil: ‘We were mu—‘That’s all. The poor devil was on the floor dying when he wrote it. He lost his senses before he could finish.”

“That’s why you were so happy when they found a purple pencil clutched in Dr Ernest’s hand when they dug up the bodies from underneath the new dog kennel!” Mary nodded. 

“That despicable old man,” John muttered. “Apparently he felt so clever and so sure of himself that he imagined no one could touch him. He could say to any suspicious neighbour, ‘Look at the steps I have taken. I have consulted not only the police but even the great Sherlock Holmes!’ But that’s where his plans fell down, not realizing he was playing with fire!”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Sherlock stated modestly. “But why is our food taking so long? Now that I’ve finished with the Copts and Colourizer, I’m famished!”

“Me, too,” Mary sighed, surprising the detective, as he knew she and John had had dinner only a few hours before. But he then noted that she had slipped off her shoe and was running her toes under her husband’s trouser cuffs under the table. He gave them his most indulgent look, being well used to his friends’ constant flirting with each other.

“John Watson, after all the lovely things I said about you today, about how respectful you are and all, are you really looking at my third blouse button?” Mary teased, dimples showing.

“I am looking at all of your blouse buttons,” John admitted soberly, but with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve decided I abhor them all. In fact, I’m not too taken with the blouse itself.”

“Hmm,” Mary nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ve developed a dislike for my jeans, as well?”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been meaning to say something to you about that,” he agreed. “I really think we ought to do something about your whole ensemble, in my opinion.”

“Well, let’s head home and we can discuss the matter,” Mary suggested cheerfully. She hastily shoved her foot back into her shoe and leaned over to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. “We’ve already had dinner, you know. We’ll see you tomorrow, Sweetheart.”

John, seeing Angelo approaching with a heavily-laden tray, told him, “Sit here and see that Sherlock eats, will you? He hasn’t had any nutrition in days. See you later!” And they were gone.

Angelo, setting the well-filled plates on the table, was distressed. “They left without their food!” he cried, a bit insulted, seating himself in their place.

“Don’t take it personally, Angelo,” Sherlock assured him impassively. “A . . . situation arose that demanded their immediate attention.” Then he gave the restaurateur a wicked smile as an idea suddenly occurred. “Box theirs up for them, will you? I’ll deliver it to them personally as soon as I’m finished here.”

“Ah, you’re a good friend, Sherlock,” Angelo commended him. “To go out of your way to get their meals to them at this time of night.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Sherlock smirked, tucking into his food with a powerful appetite.


End file.
